


I Won't Be Home for Christmas

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Hospital Admission, Mild Angst, Non-fatal Injury, Post-Season/Series 03A, Sheriff POV, Stilinski Family Feels, prompt: Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hurts, a dull, all over ache that he knows would be worse if it wasn't for the morphine that clouds his mind. He hasn't wrapped Stiles' presents. "I'm sorry," he says, the words sticking in his throat. "I won't be home for Christmas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Won't Be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I got the flu real bad a couple days before Christmas and we had to cancel our plans. I felt awful that the kids were missing out on the big extended family thing this year. This started out as a reaction to that, but kinda tangented, as my stuff is wont to do. I've gone with the Sheriff's fanon name here. I'm simply not skilled enough to stick to canon when writing Sheriff POV (give us a goddamn first name, Jeff!)
> 
> Written for the prompt 'Holidays' over at [Fullmoon Ficlet](http://fullmoon-ficlet.livejournal.com/).

John hears his son's voice through a fog. He can't make out the words.

There's another voice, female and familiar. "Five minutes."

John opens his eyes when a warm hand slips into his own. 

"Dad, thank god." Stiles' voice is frantic, on the verge of panic. "I was so scared, Dad, they said you'd been shot." 

John remembers the gas station robbery, the suspect discharging his weapon as he fled the scene. John remembers an impact, heat in his belly, the cold, hard pavement beneath him. "It's Christmas," he says. His throat is dry. There's sand caked beneath his eyelids, and he can't see his son for the blur.

"Almost," Stiles says. "You were only in surgery a couple hours. It's still Christmas Eve."

John doesn't want to be in the hospital for Christmas, but he hurts, a dull, all over ache that he knows would be worse if it wasn't for the morphine that clouds his mind. He hasn't wrapped Stiles' presents. The turkey is in the fridge. "I'm sorry," he says, the words sticking in his throat. "I won't be home for Christmas." John blinks away tears, and his eyes focus.

Stiles' eyelids are heavy, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. "It's okay," he says. "We'll have Christmas later. You've just gotta get better. I love you, Dad."

Stiles pulls away, and John is left with just the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor for company.

* * *

"Will somebody get me some goddamn breakfast?"

Some of John's deputies were in this morning, when he was still fuzzy headed and stuck flat on his back, unable to lift himself into a more dignified position. They went back to work, to their families, and John's only seen nurses since.

He's not asking for much, but some solid food wouldn't go astray. He presses the buzzer again.

It's not a nurse that opens the door a few minutes later. Stiles explodes into the room, relief and happiness on his face. "Oh my god," he says as he collapses into the chair beside the bed. "I didn't sleep at all last night, but they said you're doing okay." He grins, his face lighting up. "The nurse said you're driving them crazy, but you're not allowed to eat yet." He glances up at the IV bag hanging above John's head. "I don't blame you. Scott's house smells like—oh my god, you've got no idea and I probably shouldn't say anything. It's cruel." He looks back down, takes a couple of deep breaths and lets them out slow. "Merry Christmas, Dad." He drops a wrapped gift on the bed. It's bottle-shaped, and bound to be something John isn't allowed until he gets out of here.

"Hey, kiddo." John lifts his hand, wraps it around the neck of the bottle. He's not propped up far, just raised a little on pillows, and he has to pull it up beside his hip. He doesn't dare prop it on his belly, the pain when the nurse helped him up was enough to make him wary. "Help me out here."

Stiles holds the gift while John tears the paper away to reveal a bottle of very good whiskey. "Thanks, kid," he says. "Now, who do I have to arrest for supplying alcohol to minors?"

Stiles grins and drops his eyes. "Derek?" he says. Pink streaks across his cheeks. "But you can't arrest him, 'cause he knew it was for you. He knows when I'm lying."

"Derek," John says, barely keeping his voice above a growl. He mentally writes _supplying alcohol to minors_ at the top of his list of reasons to arrest Derek Hale should it become necessary. He figures _werewolf who spends far too much quality time with my son_ wouldn't fly in court, though.

Stiles keeps his eyes carefully averted. "I took the turkey to Scott's, I hope that's okay? Derek and Cora are coming later, so it won't go to waste." He looks up. "I was so scared, Dad." He blinks rapidly. "You got shot."

"I'm fine," John says. He tries to reach out, but pain lances through his midsection and he falls back into the pillows. "I'm okay, Stiles. I'm all right."

Stiles nods. "Yeah. It's just a lot, you know? You're all I've got. I can't lose you."

This time, John gets his hand up, IV tube and all, gets it around the back of Stiles' neck. "I know, kid." He worries something like this will happen to Stiles, that it'll be John called to the hospital in the middle of the night. Stiles deals with monsters every day. They're his friends. John looks down at his belly, the gunshot wound hidden by bandages and blankets. What will it be when Stiles is the one lying here?

He's seen Chris with some serious firepower. Will it be a rogue hunter's bullet? An arrow? Will he be sacrificed to a tree next time someone with the right knowledge wants revenge? Will he be caught in the middle of a fight between the werewolves and the next monster out of myth that shouldn't be real?

Maybe he'll come home with a bite that heals overnight.

"Sometimes I wish you weren't so human," Stiles says, almost echoing John's thoughts. "Scott walked away from being shot like that." He drops his eyes, shakes his head. "You'd be home right now."

"I'm sorry," John says. He wants the same thing—to be home for Christmas, to give Stiles the tradition they've kept up since Claudia died. "I'm so sorry."

Stiles nods, then shakes his head. "It's okay. Scott's mom is good at the Christmas thing. I just wish you could be there, too."

John watches him go later. He's tired and sore, but relieved that his kid won't be alone. Even if one day John doesn't come home at all, Stiles won't be alone. He has family in those friends of his. They might be monsters, but they care about his son, they keep him safe, and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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